The Shaz of Portency is blowing green leaves and airplanes
attack golden vibrator hawks into final positions to dream
the only way for haze on the loaf of queen’s bread to fold.

Pluck, pluck, zeee, zeee, poe, poe, poe, phoo-oo.

Calm now and silent flowing thoughts of pianistic revery
climb carelessly placed ephemeral lattice while phosphenes glow
for guidance into secure warmth. Wait. A burst of cacophonous joy
sounding like a trout wangling its kin for some hash and eggs.

A young girl with her mind focused within permanently
holding a delicate flower senses more than we will ever see
or she will ever comprehend when the green fuses with the roughness
of the ground and the smells of carnations and molds blend
for her scattering and knowing only her mother’s and father’s love
extinguishes grief and laughs, curling her fingers
into the circle that resounds with harmonic pleasure
she alone can feel.

Oh, “O”. Love and pain and wondering.

Autism, within its city limits, must be a lonely place. Forgive me
for kissing the atmospheric condensate reflections of azure and cotton
as the fissures of longing for making deeper connections
in the wonderfully inhabited space of minds that have no concept
of intercommunication beyond shape and color and texture running
ripples over the tips of fingers and eardrums while order and structure
are flying up and down to the tune of footsteps randomly echoed.
When the applause dies down the nasturtiums are dancing quietly.

Pi-tal, pi-tal, pi-tal, pi-tal, pi-tal, phoom. Phoom. Phoom-plume.

The grid of softly rooting drapes the blinded eye as feathers
caress palms and mesquites for daily bread and forgiven destinies
behind altars and podia where a lack of empathy shines forth as
a light in its blackness and dullard degrees for cellular dreams of
too many friends or not enough time at the block of real learning
or caring beyond fusillades and the currency of acquisitions
renders useless applications of hackneyed structure or blandness
in the face of true light. Shine on girl, keep fanning the flames of
inner visions into a life of joy, love and peace.

This morning I decided to not get up right away
I chose instead to let the ideas sit,
to let the seeds germinate or ferment just a bit more
until either their sprouting leaves or gasses
forced upon my consciousness thoughts that compel
my getting up from the succulent repose.

I know there were gems lost, bubbling down into the muck
of my fertile mind’s deepest folds perhaps to resurface
unexpectedly while in the midst of some unrelated activity
that would cause me to run for a pen and paper or
curse my lack thereof and carry on relying on
its coming out again when its really needed.

If faith truly moves mountains it surely can handle
a small pile of mental excrement, even though it be
weighted with its core of glistening gold. And, like
a fast breaking wind it suddenly rears its head and
bellows for release against the restraints of serious
activities like eating, sleeping and balancing my feet.

I am an artist, a painter of shapes and colors that
make images of things as yet unseen. I create
and others wonder at the existence of such beauty
exposed on surfaces attached to their walls. I mess with
things that most consider ephemeral anyway, random
fluid edges defining amorphous entities and virtual environs.

But now I am moving into more serious messing with
the forces of our cohesive existence as social beings, as
I begin to create using not colorful ephemera but a medium
that is at the very center of our civility — words. They have
more meaning and power being the essence of our
thoughts that govern our conscious and subconscious.

This is some heavy shit man. I mean I could actually expose the
brilliant demon that lurks just below this thin skin of sanity I’ve felt
forced to retain. My thoughts painted as purple blobs flowing into
sharp-edged red polygons, punctuated by brilliant green shards
are seen as merely an artist’s play, hung safely on the wall behind
the couch. But words expressed in a similar fashion — that’s

something else. These creations could really do something more
serious, good or bad. That excites me and makes me wonder why
I have avoided this medium all these years. It matters not in fact
since there is only the present and I choose to make it filled with light
and let others interpret as they choose, my words and images
to enlighten or frighten, to love or to leave. My world, love it or heave it.

Immediately I see the other side, mine as creator, writer;
my responsibilities and the burdens I must carry to just get into
that frame of mind where simile and meaning mix and blend as layers of
color and light, where names and places are eluded to and defined
but the readers mind is the stage, the wall on which they hang
until their own winds blow them off to shatter into seeds for their own gestation.

So I’m glad I didn’t grope around for that paper and pen this
morning at first light, when the cat was scratching the chairs and bed,
mocking birds and doves sang their springtime songs and my thoughts
were just beginning to lay themselves out in the red glow of dawn
on my eyelids closed with the loving weight of pre-waking bliss. Glad
I let them settle into that fertile soil and fester, rot and burst on their own.

My friend Doug Payson sent me a list of contemporary clichés that he is particularly tired of hearing and challenged1 me to use at least 80% of them in a composition. Well, here they are, all 100% plus a few linking2 words:

Sweet! Back atcha drama queen.

Your toxic mocking is, oh my god, too much wall st.-vs-main st. information sucking up all the oxygen. I don’t have the bandwidth above my pay grade but in the fullness of time the past is prologue.

The transformative tipping point was thrown under the bus dating back to the litmus test proving beyond a doubt that having issues with annoying pack ice is spot on. It’s a perfect storm to be into somebody, being vetted at the end of the day and going viral but, I’ve got your back as you’re jumping the shark.

Giveback heads up my iconic friend, I’m on it, all over it and the over-arching payback is — well, duh… 9/11 and the surge. What are you thinking at the end of the day? Without being disingenuous, it is what it is — best thing since sliced bread and dialing back the pressure ridge.

I’m having issues with going viral — I’m so NOT going to enjoy the totally annoying heavy lifting, creep factor growers. 24/7 its GO GO GO — getting a rib on it. Priceless, kicked to the curb to bloviate on brash ice. Having said that, 40 is the new 30, priceless but its my bad. That being said — fast ice leads.

_________________________________________________________________1 – “It’s crackers to slip the rozzer the dropsy in snide.”
2 – “I had one grunch but, the eggplant over there.”